The Wind About to Blow
by Esther-Channah
Summary: Dick knows he has to tell Bruce about what happened with Blockbuster, but Bruce has his own baggage to deal with. Chapter 2 now up and somewhat modified.
1. Guilt

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of DC comics. No financial benefit is being derived from their use. "House of Cards" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her album Stones in the Road, released 1994. Used without permission but with sincere admiration.

**The Wind About To Blow**

_And now I feel the wind about to blow, and baby I'm so scared  
You're repeating the past instead of letting it go  
And I don't wanna go back there_

_Now we're standing here face to face, afraid to move or else  
I wanna prop up this fragile place, I can't do it all by myself  
'Cause when we dream, it's of the wind, blowing cold and hard  
When we wake up we still live in a house of cards_

--Mary Chapin Carpenter, "House of Cards"

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**Chapter One: Guilt**

"…And as we grieve," the minister's voice intoned solemnly, "we ask ourselves why? Why were these talented, dedicated young men, beloved and respected by their families and peers, taken from us?"

_I wish I had an answer for you_, the man said silently. He was standing several feet behind the rest of the crowd, his figure partially obscured by the shade of the trees beneath which he had sequestered himself. He was not a person at whom one would normally look twice. A knitted cap covered his head, stopping a scant half-inch above dark eyebrows. An authentic-looking knife-scar marred the man's left cheek. Three-day stubble adorned his jaw line, and he wore an army jacket, zipped up over a charcoal-grey top. Camouflage pants and combat boots completed the ensemble. Anyone passing him on the street would probably walk past without even registering his presence. Which was, of course, what he had planned on, when he had donned this particular costume.

_Planned_. He frowned. Planning was what had caused all of this in the first place. Planning for a worst-case scenario, and failing to create a contingency failsafe in the event that said scenario was prematurely or improperly activated. And now, Officers Michael Brett, Samuel Loucks, Manuel de Pareja and twenty-four of their police brethren had paid the price.

In the last ten days, he had paid his respects to twenty-one of these fallen. Tomorrow, there would be another service for the remaining three. More than a dozen still remained in the I.C.U.'s at various hospitals in the city. The man hoped—no, actually 'prayed' _wasn't_ too strong a word, this time—he _prayed_ that tomorrow's burials would be the last. He could see Akins walk over to a woman who was tightly clutching the hand of a young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old. De Pareja's widow and son. The police commissioner's back was toward him, preventing him from reading Akins' lips, but the woman, a forced smile on her face, nodded mechanically, pulling the little boy closer. The child's eyes screwed tightly shut, and he turned away.

The man closed his eyes in empathy. When he opened them, they met the boy's squarely. The boy frowned slightly, unsure, then looked back at Akins.

That tore it. Without realizing what he was doing, the man took a step forward. Four steps more would carry him away from the relative safety of the trees. His fingers fumbled at the zipper on his army jacket. One inch lower and the bat-symbol on the uniform beneath would be revealed. _You want me, Akins? I'm right here. Go ahead. Snap the cuffs on—G-d knows I deserve it._ But his fingers froze on the zipper-pull. And his legs refused to take another step. And after a moment, Akins passed on, unseeing.

Bruce Wayne watched the rest of the service in detached silence. As the three coffins were lowered, the sun continued to shine brightly down. That seemed all wrong. It should have been raining. That would have been the perfect weather for today. But it had only rained three days out of the last ten, and sun was predicted for tomorrow as well.

He waited for the crowd to thin before retreating back through the trees, to the parking lot, where a five-year-old Dodge Neon, kept on hand specifically for those rare occasions when he needed to appear in public as neither Bruce Wayne nor Matches Malone, awaited. Once outside the gates of the cemetery, he accelerated fifteen miles beyond the speed limit. No sirens blared behind him.

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The noonday sun, coming in through the window, beating down on his closed lids finally forced Dick Grayson awake. As usual, a pain in his leg as he shifted position reminded him of the bullet wound—days old now. It was healing nicely, according to Alfred. A short while longer and he would be back in costume.

Doing what? He shook his head, sitting up. Balancing on his crutch, he headed for the washroom. He splashed cold water on his face. Feeling the cobwebs clear, he made his way back into the room and rummaged through the bureau, pulling out shirt, pants, and socks at random.

Alfred entered carrying a covered tray. How did he always know when to come in? Dick wondered wryly. The elderly man wished him a good afternoon as he shook his head, eying the assortment of clothing on the bed. He set the tray down on the table, pulled out a different shirt and pair of socks, and exchanged them for the ones Dick had selected.

Great. Not only had he failed to prevent Blockbuster's death, not _only_ had he handled himself like a rank amateur during the recent mob war, but now it seemed that he couldn't even coordinate his wardrobe.

Blockbuster's death. Dick cringed inwardly. He was going to have to talk to Bruce about that. The sooner the better. Before Bruce found out for himself. _And will you bring up what happened afterwards? On the roof?_ He shook his head slowly. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to tell Bruce about that one.

"Is he in the cave, Alfred?" Dick asked casually.

"Master Bruce had a mid-day appointment," Alfred responded. "He is expected back shortly."

Dick frowned. "On a Saturday?"

"Indeed, Sir."

Dick sighed, more than a little relieved.

"Master Dick? If there is any way in which I might be of assistance…"

_Could you tell me the best way to let Bruce know that I walked away from a man, fully cognizant of the fact that as soon as I got out of the line of fire, Tarantula was going to blow his head off? How about the best way to 'fess up that I neglected to mention that minor detail when Tarantula followed me back to Gotham? Like I conveniently "forgot" to tell him that she used to work for Blockbuster, may have murdered Chief Redhorn, am I leaving anything out? Oh, well, I guess Babs probably already told him Tarantula attacked her too, so that doesn't exactly count, does it?_

_On second thought, Alfred, I'd better not ask you for your advice. See, I don't think I could handle it if you and Bruce both knew how badly I've let you down over this. And I **know** that Bruce would keep this to himself—if only to spare you_.

Dick shook his head. "I really have to talk to him."

Alfred looked as though he wanted to say something more, but restrained himself. "I shall tell him so when he arrives." He looked Dick over again. "Master Dick, while I realize that I might obtain more obedience from the average brick wall, I feel constrained to point out to you that your wound would heal far more rapidly if you would only rest that leg."

Dick forced a smile. "Duly noted, Alfred. Thanks." Well, as long as he was penned up in the manor…. "Could I see today's paper?"

Alfred frowned. "Master Dick, I really think…"

"What?" His smile became more genuine. Sadder, but more genuine. "It'll depress me? Alfred, even as much as you and Bruce have been tiptoeing around me for the last week and a half, I've picked up a few hints. At this point, if I don't get the facts about what's really going on out there, I'm just going to start imagining something worse. C'mon!"

The older man sighed, turned and left the room. He returned a moment later carrying a folded newspaper. "Somehow, Master Dick," he stated, depositing it next to the breakfast tray, "I doubt that it would be possible."

As Alfred departed, Dick turned the paper over to the reveal the headline _Civilian death toll rises to 38_. His eye dipped cautiously below the forty-eight-point type and byline. _Anita Blain, 30 succumbed early this morning to gunshot injuries sustained in last week's pitched battle between…_ He forced himself to read on. The press was clearly playing up the events as much as possible. Dick suspected that had this happened in Metropolis, the coverage would have been more balanced. Who was he kidding? Had this happened in Metropolis, Clark would have stopped things before they had a chance to balloon so far out of control.

Alfred was right. Just now, he couldn't imagine things being worse. Dick pushed the paper away and sat lost in thought.

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Dick balanced the tray, with its half-eaten breakfast on the palm of the hand not maneuvering the crutch. Alfred hadn't returned for it yet. No matter. He could probably handle the journey down to the kitchen without mishap. He reached the top of the stairs without incident. Now came the tricky part. Dick thought for a moment, then leaned the crutch against the top of the railing, and used the banister to negotiate his way down. At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated. He could probably make it to the kitchen with the tray, but if he was wrong, Alfred was _not_ going to appreciate the fragmented crockery that would almost inevitably result. Things were already in enough of a mess for him, without causing another one that would land him in more trouble. He set the tray down on a nearby end table.

He looked back up the stairs, grimacing. _Now_, the crutch would come in handy. He could hear voices coming from the den. It sounded like Bruce was back. Dick drew a deep breath. Now. He had to tell him now. While he was still psyched up for it. He followed the voices, hand brushing the wall for support. The voices became clearer as he advanced. Suddenly, he froze, listening.

"You heard me the first time, Alfred. I don't think you have any idea how close I am to turning myself in to GCPD. Probably for my own good."

"Sir! Quite understandably you're distraught, but I hardly think—"

"Distraught? Alfred, more than sixty deaths can be chalked up to me as of _today_. The press may have the details skewed, but they're right about the main idea. Virtually everything that went wrong over the last two weeks can be attributed to the fact that I gave a… a terminated worker _unsupervised_ access to my computers to clear out her personal files, and neglected to lock down any other data that I didn't want her copying on her way out of the cave."

"You couldn't have known, Sir."

Bruce laughed unexpectedly. "When Waynetech has to let people go, Alfred, do you really think we expect them to steal our product specs before they leave the premises? But we can't afford to take chances. So, our security monitors every key they hit, every file they copy. _I've_ insisted on it since I took charge. But somehow…" He exhaled. "I made a mess of it, Alfred. _All_ of it. Hacking the airwaves, hijacking the GCPD, somehow failing to notice that it was _Black Mask_ under Orpheus's helmet…" Softly, he continued. "I failed, Alfred. I failed Gotham. I failed Stephanie. I failed Orpheus, Brett, Loucks, de Pareja… It's… all my fault."

Bruce's voice had grown progressively lower as he spoke, so when Dick heard the loud thud, it startled him. Books, he identified automatically. Knocking the reading lamp off the desk on their way to the floor. A muffled yell followed, then a sliding sound and another bang, which indicated that the desk blotter, complete with pens, paperweights and sundry notepads must have followed suit. "All! My! Fault!" It took Dick a moment longer to identify the origin of the third crash: a hollow globe impacting an oak-paneled wall. He continued on to the den, moving as stealthily as he could, although he doubted that anyone was paying attention.

"Sir! Bruce!"

Dick started. He didn't remember _ever_ hearing Alfred just call him 'Bruce' before. It was always '_Master_ Bruce', or, more formally, 'Sir'. Slowly, he eased the door open wider. Bruce was standing behind the desk, his eyes squeezed shut, both his hands gripping the hardwood surface. Dick wondered idly if he was planning to throw that, too. Alfred moved toward Bruce, making just enough noise to alert the younger man to his approach. As he reached him, Bruce shook his head. "I _failed_, Alfred. Everyone. Utterly." Alfred placed a hand gently on his shoulder blade. Bruce slid away from it. "Don't touch me," he whispered. "I—it's all unraveling… my fault… I… Dick was right, before. I… drove… them all away again." He shook his head. "Maybe, it's better this way. I'm… poisonous—"

"_N_o!" The syllable burst from Dick's lips before he even knew that he was going to speak. Both men turned as one to see him standing in the doorway, trembling. "Bruce, that is _not_ true. _You_ didn't execute the scenario—"

"It was _my_ scenario!"

"And you opened fire on the crime bosses to set this whole thing off? You saw one of them pull a gun and you walked away?" Ouch. That was a slip if ever there was one, he noted. He forced himself to continue. "Bruce, listen to me. Gotham needs you. Now, more than ever. You want to tell me how much good you're going to do in Blackgate—"

"It would probably be Arkham," Bruce muttered.

Dick rolled his eyes. "Oh, _that_ makes everything alright, then. What was I thinking? Look, it's like Alfred's been trying to teach both of us for I don't know how long—you make a mess, _you_ clean it up."

If he had been only a few years younger, Dick probably would have clapped a hand to his mouth right about then. As it was, he paled a few shades. Bruce started, then glanced automatically at Alfred. The older man surveyed the disarray surrounding them and his lip twitched. He turned abruptly to the window.

Bruce looked over to Dick, again, his expression pensive. "The last time I was as… cut off as I am now," he said quietly, "it… wasn't good. I'm not sure things would improve were I to repeat the experiment." He closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. "Robin and Batgirl are in Bludhaven, right now. I understand if you feel the need to keep an eye on them."

Dick smiled, but the smile faded almost instantly. "Bruce," he said steeling himself, "you're not the only one who's… made a mess of things lately. And I don't know if it's fair for me to dump this on you, now. But, there's something you _have_ to hear. And if I don't tell you now, I might not have the nerve to do it later. I don't know if there's anything you can do… or if you'll even want to… but you need to know what's been going on before you… start asking me to volunteer to stick around."

Bruce advanced until he stood less than an arm's length from his… his _son_. Then he placed both hands on the younger man's shoulders. "Go ahead," he said simply. "I'm listening."


	2. Exculpation

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of DC comics. No financial benefit is being derived from their use. "Land of the Living" lyrics by Wayland Patton and Tia Sillers. Recorded by Pam Tillis on her _Greatest Hits_ album.

A/N: Reference is made to events taking place in recent issues of Batman and Nightwing comics, as well as to scenes previously depicted in _Batman #614_ (during the HUSH arc), as well as to Identity Crisis. The reader may also wish to look at Batman: The Killing Joke, A Death in the Family, Batman: No Man's Land, Vol. 5., Robin: Unmasked, and _Outsiders #17_.

A/N: It's not very often that I dedicate my work to anyone, but this chapter is an exception. People who know me on the DC message boards, know that I've said in a few threads that my fan-fics are of two kinds. There are the Psion Force stories—and then there are the ones I write in reaction to something penned by one of DC's official writers—because it hits me that they aren't going to depict a scene that I feel needs to be shown. And, the thing is, _every single time I show one of those scenes,_ somebody sends a review that goes something like: "you've managed to make the down fall of poor benighted Nightwing not seem quite so irreversible as the naysayers would have us believe." (Thanks, Simon920!) Or "frankly, while I doubt we'd ever get that kind of heart to heart in the comic, I wish we did. This would have fit in nicely." (Phoenix83ad, that means a lot!). And that tells me that I'm not the only one who had that reaction upon reading the story that served as my inspiration. And it feels great. You all… _get_ it! So, when a story that I thought was a single-chapter standalone generates **five** requests for a second part… well, I start brainstorming.

Having said that, this chapter is dedicated to Knottaclue, giveGodtheglory, Simon920, nightgirl, and cmar. Because I really would not have written it, without your feedback.

**Chapter Two: Exculpation**

"…And all I could think," Dick continued dully, "was that he was _right_. It was never going to stop. If I wasn't going to kill him, I was as good as signing the death warrant of everyone else I knew. But I couldn't do it. And then I heard _her_… Tarantula, telling me to move. She told me all I had to do was get out of the way, and she'd take care of the rest."

He studied a fixed point on the carpet in the den. Bruce hadn't said a word since he had started talking. He had begun with the fire at Haly's, and continued through with the murders of the 35 people unfortunate enough to be at home when Mouse and Giz had destroyed his apartment building. No, Bruce hadn't _said_ a word. His body language, however, had spoken volumes. Especially his eyes. Dick couldn't meet them now. "I could see she had a gun. I knew that right at that moment, I was the only thing keeping Desmond alive. Worse. _He_ knew it. He was laughing, saying that even then, after everything he'd told me, I was still trying to come up with a way to save him from her. And I was. And then… we can look for excuses, like I tried to do the last time, with Joker. I was beyond stressed. I wasn't analyzing things closely—if I had been, I would have made a copy of his confession disk so I'd have a backup in case Flores _did_ turn out to be in Desmond's pocket. Which he did. But it doesn't change the fact that… she told me to move out of the way of her shot. And I did. And she pulled the trigger."

He closed his eyes and hunched forward on the sofa, elbows on knees, forehead buried in hands, waiting for Bruce's weight to leave the sofa… for the footfalls indicating that he was picking his way through the jumble of debris that had previously been arranged atop his desk, for the door to click shut behind him. He hadn't anticipated the arm, which wrapped itself fiercely around his shoulders, drawing him close. Dick drew a shuddering breath. "I killed him. She pulled the trigger, but if I hadn't gotten out of the way—"

Bruce's response was to stretch his other hand out to pull Dick's away from his eyes. "Look at me," he ordered softly. Quiet though the voice was, Dick knew that tone. He forced himself to comply. The mask was quite definitely slipping, he noticed, but he read neither hatred nor revulsion in the older man's eyes.

"I think," Bruce said, "that this may have been one reason that I didn't want you to stay with the police department. Sooner or later, it was almost inevitable that we would be discussing something of this nature… and it's not a conversation to which I'd been looking forward." Alfred had brought down Dick's crutch before leaving the two alone. Bruce reached for it now, and handed it to Dick. "Walk with me," he said, getting up and indicating the elevator down to the cave.

Uncertainly, Dick rose to his feet. Bruce was moving a little faster than he needed to. It was an effort to keep up. Seeing this, the bigger man slowed and waited for Dick to get inside the elevator car before stepping in after him. A moment later, the doors parted on the third level. Bruce ignored the computer station and strode briskly toward a bank of filing cabinets standing against the far wall. Unlocking one of the drawers, he pulled out a cowl—one of the newer ones he'd been wearing for the past year or so. He tossed it to Dick. Dick caught it one-handed, and looked at it, confused.

"I'm stumped," he said after a moment. "Why am I holding this?"

"Did you take a good look?"

"One of the ears is missing," Dick replied, shrugging. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"Yes. You're going to tell me what it is."

Dick glanced up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Do it."

Dick frowned. But he held the cowl closer, examining it closely, first with his eyes, then with his hands, paying careful attention to the stub where the missing ear had been. All the while, he could feel Bruce's gaze resting on him. Now that he knew that there actually _was_ something to find, it didn't take him long to look up. "This has been shot off," he said.

Bruce nodded. "By Jim. The night I thought the Joker had killed Tommy Elliott."

"So he fired at you? Jeez, Bruce, I told you sooner or later he'd get fed up with that disappearing act you always used to pull on him." It was a feeble joke, at best. Dick remembered an instant later that James Gordon was moving away from Gotham, the better to live near Barbara. Lucky him. Leaving Bruce behind though. That had to hurt. "Sorry, Bruce. I didn't mean to—"

Bruce waved a hand at him, dismissing the comment. "He tried talking to me first. I didn't listen. All I could think about was… tearing that… stupid leering grin… off of that pasty face… once and for all. I thought about Barbara. And Jason. And my hands seemed… inadequate. I… so help me; I wished I had a crowbar. I think Jim fired twice. Once clear over my head. The second shot… he was standing at point-blank range, so it wasn't as incredible a feat as it would initially appear, nicking off that ear. That was what it took to stop me from following through with… what I had started."

"I remember," Dick said finally. "Afterwards. In the cave. But, Bruce, you _didn't_ kill him."

"And you haven't been listening. I didn't kill him because at the crucial moment, somebody was there to pull me back. And trust me, I didn't give in easily."

Dick handed him back the cowl. "I understand what you're trying to do, but let's face it, that was spur of the moment. You weren't thinking straight. I _was_."

"Were you? From what you've been describing, you'd had little sleep, less food, and more… excitement in the week or so leading up to Desmond's death than you'd had for quite some time." Dick opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, Bruce continued. "Before you try telling me that you were coping well with that situation, I want you to think very hard about exactly whom you're addressing."

A brief smile flickered on his lips as the import of what Bruce was saying hit home, then faded. "Bruce, even if the pressure was getting to me, I knew damn well what was going to happen when I got out of the way. Are you saying I was _right_ to step aside?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I'm saying that…" He broke off. "What you did was… understandable. Not right. Understandable. When Joker murdered Gordon's wife… I remember thinking that… if I had ended things after Jason… it wouldn't have happened. If I'd ended them the night Barbara was shot, Jason would still be alive. A few months prior to that, and Barbara would still be walking. I've sworn—repeatedly—that I would never take a life. And some nights, when I think about the lives destroyed because I uphold that vow, I wonder just how badly I'm fooling myself. And after everything that's happened recently…" He let his voice trail off. A moment later, he continued.

"When you told me that you were joining the police force, I knew that sooner or later, deadly force would have to become a necessary option for you. And I was expecting that one of two things was going to happen. Either, you would fire on someone in the line of duty, and try to come to grips with that, or… you wouldn't. And as a result, someone, maybe your partner, would pay the price." He waited for Dick to meet his eyes again. "I didn't want you to have to deal with that. And on some level, I thought that getting you off of the force would resolve the issue."

Dick shook his head. "And all this time, I couldn't figure out how you trusted me to chase ninjas over rooftops twenty stories high, but thought me being a cop was too dangerous. That wasn't it, was it?"

"No. Although, I admit it was a tense moment when Alfred told me you'd been shot."

Dick nodded. "I can see that, now. Bruce… about that time before… with Joker… when I thought he'd killed Tim…"

"That time, someone was there to fix things. This time—"

"I failed you." Both men spoke simultaneously, then stared at each other, one incredulous, one adamant. "How?" Dick asked, just as Bruce fired out

"NO! You listen to me, Dick. You have not failed _me_. Do you think that Barbara doesn't—didn't pass word on about what happens in your life? Alfred was at the funeral for the people in your building. Did you suppose that he had gone behind my _back_? The fire at Haly's may not have made the _Herald_'s front page, but Alfred circled the article and left it where I'd see it. But I assumed that if you wanted my help, you'd ask for it. If not, Bludhaven _is_ your city. You've shown me in the past that you had a handle on things. It occurred to me to find some excuse to stop by, regardless, but—"

"Something came up," Dick finished. Something _always_ came up. Some charity function, or Bat-related business or… oh. Oh… crud. "Sue Dibney."

Bruce nodded. "And then the attempt on Jean Loring. And—"

"Jack Drake." Well, no, actually, that one had come after the mob war. After Blockbuster. _So what?_ _You want Tim to ever hear you say that one doesn't count? _He shook his head. Between the shockwaves running through the JLA, the _normal_ crime situation in Gotham, this whole business of having to adjust to having… and then to _not_ having a new Robin… factor in all of the shouting matches he'd had with Bruce over the years when he had accused Bruce of not believing that he, Dick was capable of managing on his own… Dick couldn't exactly blame him for not being there this time.

"I thought I _did_ have a handle on things," he said, softly. "And then, almost overnight things just—"

"Spiraled out of control," Bruce finished. "It's happened to me on more than one occasion." One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Less than two weeks ago."

Dick smiled back in response. "You know, you're taking this a lot better than I expected, considering. I guess, from what you said, you've been planning for this for a while."

Bruce frowned. "That's not entirely accurate, you know."

"Yeah," Dick agreed. "From what you were telling me before, you were expecting me to be a little more of an active participant."

Bruce turned away. "No." From his body language, he seemed to be struggling to resolve some dilemma. Finally he squared his shoulders and turned partway back toward the younger man. "You were feverish for five days. Delirious. You… talked. Extensively."

"Oh." Okay. People did tend to babble on in that state. So he must have mumbled something or other about killing Blockbuster. But, Bruce shouldn't be acting this… nervous? No, that wasn't exactly right. Confused? No. _Unsure_. That was closer. But why… Dick blanched. _I couldn't have gone into…_ "Bruce? Was Blockbuster _all _I talked about?"

Bruce bowed his head. "No."

_Oh, man!_ "I… what did I say?" _If that doesn't sound like I'm trying to make up some other story, I don't know what does_.

Bruce forced out the words. "Enough for me to make certain… inferences. Given the nature of the people with whom I frequently interact, it is possible that my perceptions have been colored. It could be that I am incorrectly jumping to a conclusion that is… less than savory. Are you able to clarify?"

"Do—" Why was his voice suddenly coming out in that squeak? "Do I have to answer that right now?"

Bruce slowly shook his head. "You just have."

Dick closed his eyes. "I'm sor—"

"Don't!" He interrupted. "Look at me." He waited for Dick to comply. "Don't you _dare_ try to apologize." He ducked his head so that his eyes were level with the younger man's. There was anger, there, yes… but overlaid with a pain so profound that Dick had to force himself not to look away. "Are you hearing me? What happened with Blockbuster was one thing. What happened after that was _not your fault_."

"But, I should have fought her!"

"Dick. You were in shock. You were exhausted. You had just made a difficult decision and the consequences were sinking in. In that state—"

"I still should have fought!"

"Fine!" Bruce shouted back. "Suppose that you should have. Are you telling me that because you didn't, what happened next was somehow _acceptable_?"

"No, I'm not saying that!"

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

"_I **don't KNOW!**_" His eyes were burning. No, damn it! He wasn't going to cry. For the second time that day, Bruce's hands were on his shoulders, gently easing him down into one of the swivel chairs. Funny. He hadn't even noticed the pain in his leg flaring up again. He sank back against the seat cushion. Bruce handed him a handkerchief—not a tissue, he noted with surprise. This was a real, honest-to-goodness linen handkerchief. Did they actually still make those things? Monogrammed, yet. He shook his head, disbelieving, then passed the fabric across his eyes. "I didn't mean to shout," he mumbled. "Sorry."

Bruce sat down next to him. "No. I am. Sorry I just put you through that. And… two nights ago, I was out on my rounds. And I saw _her. _She was outnumbered, outclassed, and outgunned. Literally. I watched her. She has a few good moves, the kind that the majority of street-fighters wouldn't know, but she relies on them too much. Twelve against one. She ran out of ammunition, dove for cover behind a dumpster, and I still watched. Remember, at that time, all I knew was that she was involved in Desmond's murder. I _suspected_ the rest, but until you confirmed it just now, I didn't _know_. I stood there, and I saw the look in her eyes. She knew she only had a few seconds left before they'd have her. And I remember thinking about how I'd heard you mumbling that she said that all you had to do was… walk away. And I couldn't help thinking about… poetic justice."

"But you didn't."

"No. But I hesitated. And if I were out tonight, and saw the same situation, I can't tell you that I'd react as quickly now as I did then."

Dick stretched out a hand and laid it on the older man's forearm. "You shouldn't have to. I—when I drove out that night, I had it out with her. She's not in Gotham anymore."

"Good."

There was a long pause, before Bruce spoke again.

"Alfred thinks it'll be another few days before the bandage comes off of that," he pointed to Dick's leg. "After that… it's up to you. Whether you want to wear the suit again or not, this place _is_ your home for as long as you need it to be." He realized that Dick's right hand was still on his arm. Following his gaze, Dick made as if to remove it. Before he could, however, Bruce covered it with his left. "What happened with Desmond," he continued, "if you need to discuss it, I'm here. The other matter falls… too far… outside the scope of my expertise." He waited for Dick to meet his eyes, again. "But it _is_ something that you need to address. Maybe it's something that you can do alone, I don't know. But if you can't… then, you shouldn't have to. What I'm trying to say is… when Drake threatened to go public with our identities, I told you then that there were other aliases waiting for all of us, should the need arise. If you need to talk about what happened with somebody, and feel that you're getting close to talking about _other_ activities in our regular lives, don't let it deter you. We'll manage.

"Actually," Dick said slowly, "there's a woman I'm working with in the Outsiders who might have some clue where I'm coming from. She's not really the kind of person I would have normally picked as a good listener, but recently, I found out that she's got some pretty intense things in her past—things that make me think she'll probably have some ideas on how to... work through this. Thanks for making that offer, Bruce. It means a lot. Really. It does. But let's wait before we do anything drastic, huh?"

"If you say so," Bruce said. "The offer stands."

Dick nodded. "You're going out tonight?"

Bruce hesitated. "I was planning on it. But if there's something you need to—"

"No, I was just wondering if you wanted me to stay down here for a while. If I'm going to be sticking around, I should probably bring myself up to date on what's been going on lately. And if you _did_ need something researched tonight, I could probably handle that for you." He grinned. "I mean, if you're sure you still want to put up with me, and all."

Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. "The sentiment is mutual." He turned on a monitor. "Let's get your passwords reset."

_Come down from that dark cloud  
What's done is done  
Don't you go down believing  
You're the only one  
That ever felt heartache  
Turn to regret  
We've all got something  
We'd like to forget...that's right _

Just hurry back  
To the land of the living  
Things have changed  
Since you've been gone  
The world is turning  
In the land of the living  
Take a deep breath  
Life goes on...life goes on

_Pam Tillis—"Land of the Living"_


End file.
